


Karo and Semper

by fouroux



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Anal Sex, Feeling B era, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, Pre-Rammstein, Stuttering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22925653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/pseuds/fouroux
Summary: Feeling B is no more. Rammstein has yet to form. Directionless, Paul tries to come to terms with his inner turmoil in a post-GDR era.(Set in ca 1993)
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 21
Kudos: 45





	Karo and Semper

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how many Paul/Flake shippers are even out there, but if you are one then I hope you'll find this little story enjoyable.
> 
> This takes place post Feeling B, but pre Rammstein. Paul and Flake have been sharing a flat for several years at this point, and that's just too juicy a detail not to spin a story around, no? :) Karo and Semper are GDR cigarette brands.
> 
> As always, this is all fabricated. I make no money, I wish no one harm, English isn't my first language. This is purely fiction, for fan eyes only. I thank MissElla for the amazingly fast beta job and for arrestzelle's undying support. I couldn't do this without either of you.

If you asked Paul, there was nothing romantic about sex.

Sex was messy; an entirely ridiculous biological concept, an ingrained need, a means to an end. Albeit a fun one. With just about enough alcohol in his system and a semi successful gig buzzing through his veins, it was even a rather easy thing to come by. His smile did most of the heavy-lifting. A shared cigarette, playful kisses and a few words spoken over loud punk music later, and Paul was good to go. Slot A into tab B, the rest worked itself out.

After all, all that Paul wanted in life was to have fun, and romance complicated things. Romance had no space in the back of their van, on someone's worn couch or in questionable restroom stalls. Romance was for married couples, and even within marriage Paul had never quite warmed up to it. No, he was simply too young for all of that. Too young and most certainly too horny.

So much so, that Paul regularly found himself where he did now, on those lonely days in between weekends, when there were no gigs and parties to distract from the boredom, with an itch that needed scratching and a friend that was all too willing to help. It was just too convenient, Paul would often reason with himself, if all it took was a glance and a tug on Flake's sleeve. 

“Keep going,” Paul rasped, bare and sweaty and on his knees, arms outstretched against the terracotta-coloured walls and head hanging, his mind hovering somewhere between pain and pleasure, as it often did when Flake was inside him. It wasn't that he was particularly big, but Paul would often refuse to bother with the preparations of it all, and Flake was a clumsy lover at best. Concerned, but awkward, then rushed and easily overwhelmed. Paul couldn't remember sex ever having been so much fucking _work_.

“I-I'm hurting you,” Flake gasped behind him on the bed, worry tucked away in between every word while his body worked despite himself, pounding stiffly into Paul, his big hands clamped around Paul's hips, tugging at them with greed. Yes, it hurt, but Paul welcomed it, the burn and stretch, because it distracted him from all those thoughts creeping in, from the whispers in his heart and the twist in his belly that wasn't just made up of arousal.

“It's fine,” Paul lied, and it came so much easier to him now than it used to, “I can take it.”

Flake's nose found the back of Paul's neck, rubbed against his skin, his sweaty blonde hair, until Flake's forehead came to rest against Paul's back as if to apologize in the midst of it all, and it was affections like these that made it all the harder on Paul, made him roll his shoulder in mock annoyance to shake Flake off, “Just keep fucking me, come on.”

Paul didn't want to think; thinking got him nowhere, thinking only made matters worse. Thinking meant eventually seeing behind the lie, and Paul couldn't have that happen. He just wanted to get off, to lose himself in the haze of lust for just a while and get rid of some of that weight, even though Paul knew there was no outrunning it, not anymore. He had lost that battle long ago.

Eventually, the room drowned in grunts and gasps, the smack of slick thighs and Paul's occasional mewls, and it wasn't necessarily _good_ , it was off angle and crude, but it was almost enough; enough for Paul to need his forearms to brace himself against the wall, his jaw slack, body jostling and hard cock bouncing, knees burning against the threadbare sheets. Paul looked down. If only Flake would make use of his hands, touch Paul's thighs, his chest, or between his legs, but they were glued to their usual spot around Paul's hips and rarely ventured. Too shy. He was never going to come like this, Paul figured, and reached down to help himself with a loose fist and occasional squeezes. If only he were to focus hard enough—

“P-Paul?”

Oh shit. Paul knew that tone, the hitch in his breath, and the change that followed. Flake was growing stiffer by the second, his needy thrusts turning sluggish and off-beat, his body clamping up and pulling Paul closer.

“Paul—”

“Not yet,” Paul warned, voice chipped and face flushed, his fist now working in earnest on his pulsing erection, desperate to catch up. He was dripping. “Not yet, I swear, if you— _Oh._ ”

When Flake came, Paul allowed the mask to slip, let the heartbreak show on his face, the feelings he didn't dare to admit as he stared at the wall opposite of him, getting crushed into a hug so tight that it nearly lifted him off his knees. Flake thrust and groaned, unable to contain himself, to hold back, falling victim to his orgasm that always had him shake and push and grind and come too soon, and all Paul could do was breathe through it. _Breathe_. And hold on to the arms around him, the quivering thigh against his own, leaning into it, just for a moment.

“S-Sorry, I-I'm—”

Paul let him ride it out, let him tremble and stutter his litany of apologies into the back of Paul's head, and waited for Flake's body to give while his own still felt high-strung, still ready to burst at the seams, but he was used to it now. He rarely got to finish when they were together like this. Paul closed his eyes.

“... Paul?”

“It's alright,” Paul muttered, his hands falling away and his mask back on. He shouldered his way out of Flake's sticky, heaving embrace as soon as he thought it safe to, felt Flake slip out and release Paul haltingly, as if he had had half a mind to keep Paul right where he was. Paul only groaned in relief and collapsed, let his knees stretch and his face bury in the cool pillows, if only for a handful of seconds, before he turned. Still red-faced, still mildly out of breath, Paul twisted his body halfway to catch Flake slide off the used condom. A fairly mundane thing to do, and yet Paul's eyes lingered and watched closely, almost lazily, while he arranged his legs in a haphazard manner around Flake's hunched over frame between Paul's knees.

Flake looked like he always did post-sex. 

Calmer than before, a little more grounded, with blotchy pink spots blooming from his chest to his neck, forming odd continents on his skin, his face flushed and glasses askew, foggy. Paul wondered whether Flake would ever grow into that body of his, his eyes wandering over Flake's bony shoulders, the prominent ribs and long arms, or whether he would stay lanky and awkward all his life. Now that Paul was closing in on 30, he was growing fuller and softer in places, broader and stronger in others. Flake had been scrawny when they met, and he was scrawny now, just taller.

Crossing his arms behind his head, Paul watched as Flake ran his wrist under his nose, then scratched at one blushing ear, keeping his gaze suspiciously fixed on the condom he attempted to tie a knot into. Paul sighed, he knew that kind of behaviour all too well, the self-conscious touches, the insecurity radiating from his shoulders. 

Bumping his left knee against against Flake's hip, Paul frowned, “Hey. I said it's alright.”

Flake only shook his head, his strong brows slightly furrowed and lips in a straight line. He tossed the condom and sat there, head bent, with one hand rubbing along his own thigh while his other absentmindedly pulled at his spent shaft, kneading the slick away. He was pink there, too.

“Why are you letting me--,” Flake started awkwardly, throat bobbing with the words he had wanted to say, but was now swallowing down before he dared to look at Paul, face troubled and blue eyes timid, as if he wasn't ready to hear Paul's answer, yet couldn't help to ask: “Why are we still doing this?”

Paul shrugged right through the sudden turmoil in his gut, hoping he looked as nonchalant as he wanted Flake to think he felt, but the question had hit right into that pool of thoughts Paul had felt so haunted by only moments before. Thoughts that had become annoyingly stubborn, that became exceedingly hard to ignore.

His innards cramped up, so he looked away, blowing pent up air out of his lungs like Flake had just questioned him on his favourite colour. 

“It helps pass the time, doesn't it?”

The smile on his face was thin, entirely unconvincing, he could feel it, and yet as Paul's gaze landed back on Flake he looked crushed. It wasn't a lie entirely; truth be told, they were both bored, as good as band-less and constantly horny. What else was there to do?

“I-I guess,” Flake muttered, busying himself by taking off his frames and watching the fog slowly melt away from the glass. He looked painfully young, Paul thought, even the little shadow above Flake's upper lip couldn't fool him into thinking otherwise. 

Slowly now, the four walls of their bedroom started to close in on Paul. He had to get out of here, walk off that boner still resting on his stomach, warm and entirely too interested in any of the other possibilities still hanging in the room, and get some fresh air. It wouldn't be the first time that he grabbed his stuff and walked out, always a sorry excuse on his lips. Flake had never questioned him on it, never asked him to stay, yet whenever Paul suggested they try again, sometimes wordlessly by pushing his hands under Flake's shirts and sweaters, nuzzling his bleached hair, or by simply telling him he was in the mood, Paul could feel the relief falling off of Flake's shoulders every single time. As if he had not expected Paul to suggest such a thing ever again.

When Paul scrambled to sit up, wiping his wrist across his forehead and getting back on his knees to shift off the bed, he made sure to avoid Flake's beaten expression and kept his eyes on his worn jeans on the floor.

“Don't you want me to—” 

“Nah, I'm good,” Paul lied, letting his chipper words steam-roll right through the suggestion he didn't even want to hear, and stood, grimacing at the soreness and slick feeling of spit between his ass cheeks, to pick up his pants. His simmering arousal tingled with interest at the idea of a hand that wasn't his own finishing what they had failed at before, but even more so did his stomach flip and twist with every other thought that crossed his mind. Paul damn near tripped as he hobbled into his jeans.

“I'm hungry, aren't you? I'm gonna get us something-- something to eat.” Paul pulled up his zipper and bent over for his white t-shirt, then his atrociously patterned sweater. “Hot dogs, maybe? And cigs, I need new cigs.”

Was it working? Flake looked like it did, sitting there a little forlorn, with his bad posture and vulnerable eyes, the sweat still fresh on his chest. Surely, Paul could tell him anything and he would believe it. If only Paul could believe himself.

“Alright, yeah?” Once dressed, Paul pulled his sweater taut on his still clammy body, tried to flatten his cowlicks, and didn't wait for much of an answer, didn't even look. If Flake wasn't on a tirade, he sure was a quiet guy. Pensive almost. 

And so Paul didn't take note of the nod, the faint blush of shame and pouting mouth, the downcast gaze; all Paul wanted was to get out, out, out. So he left.

***

On the streets of Prenzlauer Berg, the cold came like a shock, clashing with the heat in Paul's face, the tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat as he gulped down a big breath of November air.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , was all his mind could come up with, his arms slung tight around his middle, his oversized leather jacket doing little to shield him from the chill biting into his skin. It was just as well, Paul figured, he welcomed the pain, the distraction, once more. But no matter how briskly he walked down the street, away from home and away from his best friend, the walls that had closed in on him and his treacherous thoughts, it followed him. It. That feeling in his chest, the one he woke up and went to bed with, the flutter in his belly and the dull ache in his heart. It was there when he ate, when he brushed his teeth, when he played guitar, when he took a piss and when he tied his shoes, and it was here now, as the snow cut into his cheeks and his wrist flew up to roughly wipe at his tears.

What was he doing, bumming around each day, letting his dream fall to pieces, his priorities, his principles, just so to always end up where he did? What was he thinking, tugging at Flake's clothes time and time again, muttering _“I'm so bored, aren't you bored?”_ , knowing damn well it was so much more than that?

Flake, the lanky boy with the keyboard; eyes round and big and sky blue. Clumsy and gullible, with a humour so delightfully dry he wasn't even aware of it half the time, and a tongue that struggled to keep up with his wit. A likeable young man on most days (a mouthy drunk on others), content with surprisingly little, and a fucking nuisance when things turned unpleasant.

***

_“Paul? Paul, I'm cold.”_

  
***

From day one it had been them against the rest of the world, or what they knew of it, which honestly wasn't much. It consisted of the GDR, of Berlin and Hiddensee, their van and the street they lived on, and they had conquered every last corner of it. From stage to stage they had gone, from club to club; to big, small and shabby ones, drinking themselves senseless and dropping dead asleep on whatever surface was available. An easy time, with not a care to be found.

Until it wasn't.

***

_“This is your fault.”_

_“Is it? I'm not the one leaving the band for months at a time to spend my days travelling, am I?”_

_“There was no need to send him away like that! You-you could've—”_

_“What, then?! Tell me, Flake, what could I have done? Aljoscha hates the tape, he hates it!”_

_“We could start over—”_

_“No! Don't you get it, you big fool?”_

_A shove, frustration and angry tears._

_“It's over! Aljoscha is gone, Schneider is gone. There's no us anymore, there's just you and me, Flake! Just you and me.”_

***

Crossing a desolate playground not far from their flat, Paul decided against simply passing through and went to climb on one of the snow-covered benches, making room for himself on the backrest, boots crunching. The wind caught in his bleached hair, whipped against every stray curl, and only when he was sure that there was really no one around did he let the feeling he had been running from overwhelm him. Paul buried his face in his frigid hands.

“Shit.”

Despair grabbed him like a tide, made his heart sink and drown in his gut, his mind spiralling in on the one thing he wanted most: to be back in their cluttered flat, on one of their saggy beds, naked and shoulder to shoulder, counting the cracks in the ceiling while they discussed hypothetical band names. A cigarette to share between them. A record on. Tea turning stale . . . 

***

_“Your tea is getting cold.”_

_“I— These new wires are too thick, I can't bend them around the beads.”_

_Knit brows under a messy fringe._

_“Fuck.”_

_Peppermint and cigarettes._

_“Give it here, Tastenficker. Can't do shit with your big, soft keyboard hands, can you?”_

_“Shut u-up, Paul.”_

***

The memories did little to warm him. On the contrary, every thought left him more in pain than the last, had him shivering on the bench with nerves and a yearning from a place deep within that Paul wasn't familiar with in the least. Was that what it felt like? To want to be with someone so desperately, so profoundly, that it tore at him from the inside? Was it worth it? When did that happen?

Paul couldn't recall as he rubbed his face and blinked the thought away, padding for his cigarettes with a wet sniffle. It felt like a lifetime ago, all those gigs, the endless parties, the long drives and stupid shit no one had ever told them not to do, not even Aljoscha. Now the wall was down, the streets empty, their friends gone to find the Holy Grail in the West and their band in pieces. Paul wasn't known to be nostalgic, but right here, on this bench, with a tear dripping from his nose and the cold making itself at home in his bones, he allowed himself to dwell, to wish that he could go back, just one more time; to Hiddensee and its beaches, to the days spent singing and walking barefoot in the sand, pissing off tourists and the police alike, to the nights spent under the stars, listening to alcohol-fuelled stories and stealing playful touches under the cover of a shared sleeping bag.

Paul remembered it well, how rebellious it had felt, how innocent. No one had seen and no one had known, and they had felt safe enough to try, to give in to the push and pull.

One night, the tension under his fingertips had felt unbearable. The young, fragile body next to him so touch-starved that it trembled with the mere sweep of Paul's palm, brimful with an appetite that seemed unquenchable, confused and desperate. Hot, urgent puffs of air teetering on the edge of becoming full-grown whimpers. Paul had kissed him then, and he couldn't recall the thought that had urged him to, the thought that had come during or after. There was only the tender press of their lips burnt into his memory, the breeze around their bare shoulders and the far-away sound of waves. A sob and the taste of salt. 

***

_“... Flake? Are you crying? Hey. Stop—Was that too much?”_

_A nod._

_“Okay. Alright. I won't do it again. I promise, you hear me?”_

_I promise._

***

Paul stared at the single cigarette sitting in his crumpled Semper pack. He really would have to go and get new ones, wouldn't he? Cold fingers fished the last one out, squeezed the empty pack into a ball and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, the one with the change and his keys, then he left. It took Paul several blocks to finally light the cigarette he had been holding, his thoughts with the only kiss they had ever shared, the kiss he had promised to never repeat. Paul had kept his word.

***

_“Paul?”_

_A whisper._

_“Hm?”_

_Darkness._

_A strange floor and strange snores._

_“I think I'd rather be home right now.”_

_“Don't be silly.”_

_Slim fingers thread through bigger ones, then squeeze._

_“Just close your eyes.”_

***

The sex was mediocre at best, often rushed, and barely scratched at what Paul would consider satisfying, and yet, despite walking out unfulfilled time and time again, Paul found himself returning for more on a near daily basis. It wasn't the sex itself that he craved, it was the intimacy, the touches and smiles, no matter how brief, the kisses Paul couldn't have but looked for, the noises and the heat, to be close to him, and Paul knew he shouldn't. He _shouldn't_ want that. Not because it was gay, because to hell with those labels; Paul loved who he loved, and that was the issue.

Love.

Did he even know what that meant? It seemed so big a word, so enormous a feeling. Paul didn't know whether he was even capable. He had figured he might be, back then, with Nikki, but that had fallen through, had already been rotten before it had properly begun, and neither of them had even realized. What if this was much of the same? What if Paul was fooling himself? What if this was just a passing whim, one of those quick thoughts that came and went, like it was usually the case with him?

Why was the thought even torturing him so much?

There was no need to talk about any of this, to address his confusing feelings. Paul would just have to wait it out, keep it casual. The next girlfriend was sure to come along, the next project, the next big thing, and then he would laugh about ever having felt the way he did.

Right?

***

_“What do you think the West is like?”_

_The sun is high and hot that day._

_Blinding._

_“Aljoscha says—”_

_“Come on, Flake, I'm asking you, not Aljoscha.”_

_Grass and sand and the Baltic Sea._

_“It's not home... Why would I think about a place like that?”_

***

The wind was still billowing, still sprinkled with snowflakes as Paul stood not far from their go-to kiosk, one pack of Semper and one pack of Karo in his hands. Flake loved his cheap Karo cigarettes, but whenever he was out on grocery duty, he came back with two packs of Semper instead, one for Paul and one for himself. When Paul had asked him why that first time around, Flake had only shrugged, as if it didn't matter to him either way. When it was Paul's turn again, he would leave the groceries in the kitchen, one pack of Semper and one pack of Karo on the windowsill. By midday, the Karo pack had disappeared.

It had taken Paul several months of prodding to realize that Karo was a word Flake simply couldn't say, at least not without much embarrassment, his stutter going absolutely haywire on the first syllable alone. When Paul had been too dumbfounded to respond, feeling guilty for having pressed the issue, because he sure had a talent there, Flake had rushed out of their flat with red ears and hurt pride.

Since then, Paul would always get him Karo cigarettes, while Flake still came back with Semper.

Frankly, Paul despised the taste of them, and yet, as he lit one from the black and white chequered pack, the familiarity of the smell slapped him right across the face. It was the same smell he tended to find in Flake's sweaters, in his lazy hair and in the kitchen, when Flake was up early and Paul came crawling in with a hangover. It was the smell he turned around for in the pub, even when he knew Flake wasn't there.

Paul hated it.

He loved it.

He had to go home. 

***

Paul's boots thundered up the stairs, leaving wet imprints along the way as he hurried back up to their flat with a burning lung and ruddy cheeks. The suffocating feeling that had urged him out before was now the one that propelled him back inside, made him trip and stumble, up and up, until his knees nearly gave.

He shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have left, Paul thought wildly, unable to put the lid back on that beaten box of memories, his thoughts and feelings scattered and running loose; down his veins, up through his head, spinning and expanding, filling up his chest like sea water.

_I didn't mean it._

_“I promise.”_

_I take it back._

_Let me take it back._

The door burst open with a crash.

Paul stood, suddenly still and heaving, wide-eyed, as he found himself back in their shabby flat with the pink and terracotta walls, the clutter and smell of tea. He turned, wet boots squeaking on the floor and ears ringing, and found Flake sitting at their kitchen table, staring at him like a herd of buffaloes had just come charging through the hallway.

Flake blinked, the shock on his face slowly melting into genuine confusion as he gave Paul a quick once-over. He was smoking. The radio was on.

“Where's the food?”

The lie sat readily on Paul's tongue; the usual excuses, nonchalance twitching in his right shoulder like muscle memory, prepared to brush it all off and keep on pretending. How hard could it be? To watch Flake sleep and laugh and cook and play keyboard, and not want to kiss him? To hear him rant and moan and badly sing along to his Stones vinyls, and not have it show on Paul's face how much he adored him?

“I think,” Paul started, his breath hitching and catching in his throat, making his heart pound with nerves and his palms grow sweaty. Panic licked at the back of his neck, but he stepped forward and balled his hands into fists, determined.

“I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Paul couldn't bear to smother the thought any longer. Maybe he was being selfish, and he knew it wasn't for him to decide, but if there was a chance that Flake possibly felt the same, that he, too, liked to be around Paul as much as Paul liked to be around him, without pretence, wouldn't it be worth the risk?

“Oh,” was all Flake managed, his skittish gaze dropping and searching and coming back up again, Adam's apple bobbing with countless responses. Paul knew it would come. Maybe not now, maybe not even today, but when Flake had made up his mind, when he had found something worthwhile to say, he would, because he always did.

Relief washed over Paul as what he had kept so well-guarded was now out in the open, and suddenly it seemed silly to him that he had lived through half a crisis out on the streets of Prenzlauer Berg. Had the past years not taught him anything? Was it not them against the world? And wouldn't it always be? 

_There's just you and me._

“Yeah, I know,” Paul shrugged, a smile blooming on his face as it all fell away from him, all that he had bottled up, and reached for the pack of Karo at the back pocket of his jeans. He tossed it towards Flake, who barely caught the pack, awkwardly pressing it to his chest.

“Let's try again?” Paul nodded in the general direction of their bedroom, one shoulder already slipping free from his leather jacket, his smile widening into a grin as Flake shot up from his chair, which toppled, and hastily put out his cigarette. 

“Y-yeah—Yes, I'm coming.”

*


End file.
